I took the letter, opened it, read it through, and placed it in my pocket without a word.
With a bachelor’s curiosity, he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.
Suffice it to say that on that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met at her urgent request the pretty girl Marie Balesco, who had so enchanted me. Ours seemed to be a case of mutual attraction, for as we sat together, she seemed, after apologising for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the winds, to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons which had brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of the Balkans, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one—a delicious one it was, but rather strong—so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed I knew no more until on awakening I found myself back in my bed at the hotel.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what held occurred.
My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.
Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the Sign of the Cat’s-paw!
Horrified I stared at it. It was the same mark that I had seen upon the hand of Vassos! What could be its significance?
In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct imprint of the feline foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions, to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played such a prank on me. But he only knew her slightly. She had been staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery, but had left Sofia.
A month passed. Mademoiselle and Madame returned from Belgrade and were both delighted when I suggested they should go for a run in the “sixty.” I took them over the same road as I had taken Olga Steinkoff. In a week Mademoiselle became an enthusiastic motorist, and was full of inquiry into the various parts of the engine, the ignition, lubrication, and other details. One day I carefully approached the matter of this remarkable mark upon my palm. But she affected entire ignorance. I confess that I had grown rather fond of her, and I hesitated to attribute to her, or to Madame, any sinister design; the strange mark on my hand was both weird and puzzling. We drove out in the car often, and many a time I recollected pretty Olga, and her horrible fate.